Hope isn’t a goal. It’s not a thing we control. It’s not tangible. We can’t wear it around our necks. Hope lives in the center of our chest as a gaslight. When we need the strength, we turn the dial. Hope surprises us when it arrives through unusual messengers. Like the olympic sprinter with no legs who inspires us to lose 40 pounds. Or the hurdler who survived homelessness and who gives us hope to overcome our own economic peril. Or the gymnast…
Yesterday was my 48th birthday. I woke with my wife wishing me a happy birthday, followed by a full-grown shepherd planting his elbows into my abdomen as he tried licking my face off. I grabbed a coffee and sat down to email. In the morning sort, I noticed a couple of messages from organizations that I willingly gave my birthdate and email address to years before. A dentist’s office that I never returned to after an initial consultation that resulted in…
Funny thing about hitting bottom – when you’re down there, you’ve got two options: stay down or get up. On this particular day, I chose to get up. I was sitting in an AA meeting in Midtown Manhattan. A basement space with hard, florescent lighting and bad coffee. I’d been up and down with the idea of sobriety for a couple of months and wasn’t in a very good space on this day. It wasn’t denial. I was well aware…
I hate saying goodbye to July – with its laughter skipping across the shimmering sea. And its fireworks. And sun-kissed cheeks. I hate saying goodbye to July – with its late nights carrying little girls to bed. Little girls who wake up as young ladies. And who wake up again as women with every July that passes.
July 1991. Flushing, New York. I was roused awake by a hammering at the door. I jumped up, and quickly fell backward onto the couch. The clock in the corner flashed 9:21. I stood again, took three steps across the room, and opened the door to find a mountain of a man in the doorway. “Jimmy!” the man said, pushing open the door and walking inside. “Howa you doin’ this morning Jimmy?” It was Jack, my sponsor from Alcoholics…
The year was 1976. America was celebrating its 200th birthday. Rocky was in theaters. And the Summer Olympics were on television, live from Canada. I was 11 and it was the last time the Olympics meant anything to me. We cheered on Edwin Moses, Bruce Jenner and Sugar Ray Leonard. We were star spangled with pride. Sure, we lost to the Russians in the overall medal count, but everyone knew that Russians hand-selected their athletes from birth and manufactured them…
